


Settling for Inbetween

by tanzertime



Series: Life on Earth [1]
Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18116414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanzertime/pseuds/tanzertime
Summary: The Vogons never destroy Earth. Neither Ford or Arthur are ever made aware of this.This means that neither of them will be going home anytime soon.So what comes next?Set in an AU where the Vogons never destroy Earth.(This is more of a character study on Ford then anything! The idea of "what's he gonna do if he's stuck here forever" was chewing on me)





	1. Thursday, 10/16/1969

There are many different versions of reality. 

There’s one that a lot of people know, where things carry on in a much funnier, dry-british-humor way, and there’s a lot of jokes about drinking and having sex with aliens. 

And then there’s this one. It’s a bit less funny, and it has a bit less of an intrinsic understanding of british culture, but we’ll see how it goes. 

 

Ford Prefect was beginning to wonder if death was as bad as it was knocked up to be. 

At least it would be more interesting than this. Well, he had to assume it would be more interesting than this. 

“This” meant sitting in some bureaucratic-type office, waiting for some form he apparently needed to fill out, or some bill he needed to cover. He hadn’t been listening terribly closely when the very nice policeman had explained everything. It was something to do with a card of some kind. He listlessly thumbed through the contents of his wallet, wondering which card he was being scolded for. He plucked out his punch-card for the thai place he liked. Maybe that was it, he had filled his water cup with soda last time he was there. It seemed like an awfully little thing to quibble about, but Ford had learned in his first five years here that quibbling was something humans were awfully good at, or at least very intent on doing.

Five years, now. He mulled the thought over. Not a lot, in the great expanse of things, but it was a bit longer than a week. He’d tried a lot of the things humans were into — university, for example. Fun enough until he’d been asked to leave. Getting a job. He’d had a few of those now. Currently he didn’t, but that was fine, he’d found a good deal with a man who signed him up for something — what was it, he hardly remembered things anymore...

Mindlessly, he pulled another card from his wallet. This one was plastic and had a little picture of his face on it. He’d found out rather quickly that he’d needed it after a run-in with the law which had ended in his favor, with the involved cops in a mental hospital. Mindlessly, he chewed the corner, poking at some peanut shells that were stuck in the back of his mouth. 

Usually, going onto a planet with little to no research in advance was fun, Ford mussed as the card scraped painfully at his gums. Lots to discover. Either too advanced to care about the outside world or too primitive to know about it yet, either way, most would just let you pass with a wave of your editor’s I.D. or you could teach them the secret of fire and be henceforth worshiped as a creator-god.

No, Ford thought, wincing as the card struck another sore spot, this was one of those unfortunate in-betweens. Too advanced for anything to be easy, too primitive for anything to be fun. 

“Mr. Prefect?”

Ford turned to the voice. A little blonde man was standing in the doorway. Ford was struck by him. 

He had never seen such a plain human being. 

He’d grown accustomed to a few human cultures by now, just by hanging around them, particularly in areas where booze was freely available. As such, he had learned of the 1-10 scale. 

Now, more often than not, he’d heard it applied to women. He’d dipped his head in some places where things worked differently, but he didn’t have quite as good a grasp on the scale, so he figured it would be better to just slide the standards of the women’s scale right onto the man in the doorway. It wasn’t too far of a leap -- he’d certainly dealt with species with a much higher sexual dichotomy.

On this scale, the man in the doorway was a perfect five. 

He looked like the mannequin God would use to build something more, or maybe less, impressive. 

He looked like a somewhat intelligent shade of beige.

“Mr. Prefect?”

Ford made a face suggesting that, if it was more common for him to do so, he would have blinked in surprise as the very dullman pulled him from his thoughts.

“Right, yes,” Ford muttered, pulling the card from his mouth. He wiped it on his jacket, standing and walking boldly over to the other man, throwing his hand out for a shake. “That’s me.”

The man blinked, startled, and his hand flew to his mouth. “S-sir…”

“Hm?”

The man nervously indicated the corner of his own mouth. “You have a little…”

“Hm?” Ford repeated, giving the other man’s face a hard look-over. “Here, let me --”

The man stepped back when Ford reached for his face. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing? Trying to scratch an itch? Because you’re doing a terrible job of it,” Ford explained. What a simple species.

“Mr. Prefect --”

“Please, call me Ford.”

“Mr.  _ Prefect,  _ I mean on  _ your  _ mouth --”

Ford reached up and swiped his thumb over the corner of his mouth. It came away bloody. Well, that was odd.

He put his tongue on the case, poking around the back of his teeth. It found a peanut shell instead. Which was odd, he could have sworn he -- 

Oh. There it was. 

In a moment, Ford had coughed the newly freed tooth into his hand. “Mystery solved, then!”

He was delighted. The other man was not.

After a brief silence, Ford grew bored with it. 

“So…” he started, rolling the canine between his pointer and his thumb, “The form… or the bill, or whatever it is?”

The man took one more moment to compose himself, swallowing hard and slowly uncovering from behind his clipboard. “Would you like some water, or…”

Ford shook his head no.

The man sighed shakily and pushed the door behind him open. “...Well, come in, then.”

Ford did.

They walked around a little table, the little man pulling out his chair for him and indicating politely for him to sit. As Ford settled in, he set his tooth on the table as well, now being quite done with it. The little man looked like he had something to say about that, but in good English sense, he didn’t.

Settling in across the table, he picked up some papers and shuffled them like he knew what he was doing. “Now, Mr. Prefect --”

“Again, it’s Ford.”

“...Right, sir, sorry. Ford --”

“What’s your name, then?”

The man glanced up over the top of his papers. Something behind his eyes suggested the same fear an antelope would feel if asked which cut of his meat was juiciest. 

“... Arthur Dent,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry to not introduce myself. New job, I suppose. Erm, new job jitters.”

“Of course,” Ford said, not understanding even a little bit. This was to become a theme for the rest of their interaction.

“So… Ford,” Arthur said, skimming through the forms, “can I see a form of identification?”

Ford nodded.

There was a moment of silence.

“...Can I see it… now?”

“Oh.” Ford went back to thumbing through his wallet. “What do you want?”

“Your ID, please,” Arthur said. Ford could feel the other man getting more tired as they spoke. “Just your ID.”

“Just my… oh! Right, then,” Ford chirped, pulling it from the pocket it had been hastily shoved in. A little blood still sat in scraggly little streaks on the corner. 

Arthur picked it up like it was a loaded gun. Taking a breath to steady himself, he jotted down what he needed and slid it back over to him. “Alright. Now, Ford, do you know why you’re here?”

“Of course.”

“... Do you really know why you’re here?”

“Positively.”

“And… so…” Arthur consulted his clipboard again. “We can, ah… work out a payment plan, then…”

“Payment? What the hell am I paying you for?”

Arthur blinked at him like he’d just been punched square in the jaw. “You’re paying the credit bill that you haven’t paid once since you signed up for the card …?”

Oh. Ohhh. Ohhhhhhh, right, that.

Ford worried his lip. He’d thought the deal had sounded a little too good to be true, the deal being ‘free money forever.’ To be fair, he had been very drunk at the time. To be even more fair, he was fairly sure that wasn’t what the man had said at all. 

He moved on from his lip to the inside of his cheek. This may be a problem. 

“Mr. Prefect, I understand your concern,” Arthur said in the vocal equivalent of petting a frightened horse. “I’ve been exactly where you are, being just out of Uni and all. I won’t call my supervisor in, you’re obviously…” his eyes dropped to the tooth sitting on the table for a moment -- “in a certain place in your life, and I’m not going to make it worse. So, let’s just figure out some numbers, and you can be on your way, alright?”

Ford Prefect had nothing clever to say.

So instead, he let the little man… Arthur, right? Arthur, take him through the plan. He nodded dumbly as he was told he’d have to pay for things, which he found unsavory, and more so that he’d have to pay  _ more  _ than what he’d already spent, which really put him off. 

As Arthur told him just how long he’d be making these payments for, Ford held a hand up for him to stop. He’d one more arrow in his quiver. He didn’t like to use it. Well, that was a lie. He absolutely  _ adored  _ using it, but found it could get him in more trouble than it was worth. He gave Arthur… the stare.

The stare that, in a moment of near telepathy, tells the man across the table that who they are speaking to is not of their world, that he is something else entirely, something who has seen horrors and wonders his little mind could never cope with, even a little. A stare that says,  _ I am from a small planet orbiting Betelgeuse, and you are a mite in the eye of the universe.  _ The stare that says -- 

“Mr. Prefect?”

Ford actually blinked in surprise this time. 

Arthur was looking at him with a creased brow of concern. “You alright?”

Ford was the one who felt like a mite in the eye of the universe now. 

How could he not think of this? Of course! 

This Arthur Dent, this complete average, was another complete in-between!

Intelligent humans know that they have seen something beyond their comprehension. Stupid humans feel a primal fear and trust their gut.

But Arthur Dent? The most average man on the planet earth? 

Absolutely nothing!

Ford just stared as, after a moment, the man continued to prattle on about whatever it was he was there for. Something about money. Something about earth money, which was simply not as fun as credits or tiny hungry lizards you could trade for goods and services. He felt like his eyes were crossing. He felt like his brain was in a fishbowl, everything bouncing off, completely unable to absorb a thing said to him —

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Prefect?”

Ford startled. The other man was suddenly hovering over him, setting a form between his elbows. His face was creased with concern, as it had been for the duration of their conversation. 

Ford looked down at the form. It had a lot of very tiny, very technical text, things even the babelfish was struggling with deciphering. There were places for him to sign and check and he didn’t know why. 

“...Mr. Prefect?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, quietly. 

He quite simply didn’t. 

Five years on a planet full of perfectly alright lifeforms doing perfectly alright things. Monotony. Even madness here was tame. Wild parties went on for a night or two. Barmen cut you off at some point. To Ford, it was something like reading the phrase “the bunny hopped through the meadow” five hundred times. Perfectly pleasant. It was driving him mad. 

He heard the plain man settle into the chair next to him. He seemed to not know what to do with his hands, fussing with a pen, adjusting his shirt, the like. After a moment, he said something truly surprising. 

“Let’s go and get a bite. I can cover you, alright?”

Ford looked up at him in shock. 

“I’ll pay for it, s’cheap enough, I was just headed to McDonald’s, really. I can explain it to you again. So you know what you’ve agreed to. Erm, what you  _ will  _ agree to, possibly. Or go to jail. Maybe. I’ll explain everything.”

The man looked like he knew he was making a very bad decision. Ford knew there was no way in hell Arthur knew what he was going through. Maybe a little, yes, but he was not a stranded Betelgeusian desperate to escape back to his life of glamour and fun and maybe his family or something. 

But he did seem very nice. 

So they went to McDonald’s, and Arthur made everything a bit more clear, and Ford even apologized for the tooth stunt, you know how expensive dental can be.

On the whole, they had a lovely time. 

 

Arthur and Ford ended up as fast friends. 

First, it was nights out at pubs with a few other friends along. 

Then, it was Arthur helping him land a job at a little cafe nearby, despite his horrific employment record. 

Then, it was Ford convincing him to stop working at that terrible bank and take that job on the local radio station. 

And it all spiraled out into a grip of things — Ford watched Arthur’s cat while he was in Greece, Arthur helped him pick up a few girls, Ford made valiant but failed attempts to help Arthur do the same, they spotted each other money and slept on each other’s couches after nights of drinking. 

It was nice, Ford would admit, to have someone he’d consider a “best friend.” It was a new word in the sentence — “the bunny hopped boozily through the meadow,” now — and yet. 

He’d still sit up and look for flying saucers.

Don’t get him wrong, earth was fine. The people on it were fine. The things to do were fine. 

But you can hardly enjoy it, knowing that the rest of the universe was out there. 


	2. Wednesday, 10/10/1979 - Thursday, 10/11/1979

“Any luck?”

“I’ve an audition tomorrow, actually,” Ford replied, drying out a mug and setting it face-down on the counter. Arthur was leaned against the pick-up counter at the little cafe kiosk, sipping a coffee he’d ordered only as a courtesy. It was Wednesday afternoon, not like Ford had a line out the door anyways. It was a nice excuse to talk to him.

“What for?”

“Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” he replied, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t get too excited. It’s a community theater, not the Rose.”

“I don’t think they’d do that show at the Rose,” Arthur mused. “I think they need more distinguished things then that.”

“It’s a good show!” Ford defended.

“I’m not saying it isn’t!” Arthur defended right back. “Just that they usually don’t play musicals, is all. I don’t think. I’ve actually never been.”

“They do sometimes,” Ford supplied, moving to the next mug.

“You know, we’ve known each other for, what, almost ten years now?”

“Aw, is it our anniversary?” He teased.

Arthur scoffed. “Oh, knock it off. I meant, in a decade, I haven’t heard you sing, despite you being an actor and all.”

“You’ve heard me sing,” Ford shot back, baffled. “Of course you’ve heard me sing!”

“Not _actually_ singing,” Arthur contested, albeit meekly. “Not while you’re sober, at least.”

“It’s about the same,” Ford dismissed.

“I’d hope not,” Arthur muttered.

Ford gave him a bemused smile and went about pushing the coffee drops on the counter into obscene shapes. “Speaking of a decade, I still am making those damn payments.”

“I think we’re the only friendship that’s ever formed over a debt consolidation,” Arthur mused. “Not still upset with me, right?”

“You’ve bought me enough booze over the years for me to forget,” Ford chuckled.

“Fair enough,” Arthur shrugged. A harsh beeping noise cut through the comradery and his eyes jumped to his watch. “Damnit. I’m going to be late.” He tossed back the rest of his coffee, crinkling his nose at the taste. “I’ve no idea how you’ve kept this job. You’re bloody awful at it.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ford returned, taking back the mug. “That’s how a free coffee tastes. What do you think we charge you for?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, collecting his things and heading out the door with a wave. “Horse and Groom tomorrow, alright? And, uh…”

Ford glanced up from his work, quirking an eyebrow as Arthur struggled for what to say. “...Yes?”

“What’s that thing you actors say? Break a leg?”

“God, I hope not!”

“No, no, it means --”

Arthur must have caught the shit-eating grin on his friend’s face. The kind that gives most people goosebumps that he didn’t seem to find that strange at all.

“Shut up,” he huffed, finally actually pushing out into the chilly fall air.

Ford chuckled to himself, plucking Arthur’s mug from the counter and rinsing it out. As he washed, he found himself humming.

_There was a planet, ‘round Betelgeuse flew_

_‘Till it went and exploded, just up and blew_

_And only one man went and scrambled away,_

_And he had a son, and to him he’d say,_

_My boy, my son, last of Betelgeuse seven --_

_I’ll cherish him always, and call him --_

He stopped the song there and looped back around to the top. It was a lullaby his father had written for him, his father of course being the only one that could pronounce his name. He wasn’t able to even hum the tones that made it up, they were so arcane and involved. Did end in -en, though. Which was convenient for rhyming, as a lot of other things did as well. Heaven, kevin, eleven … he mulled over the list as he started the song over again.

“You’re in a good mood,” his coworker remarked as she scratched someone's name on a paper cup. “Vanilla latte, sugar free.”

He took the cup and pulled the faucet on the coffee pot. “What do you mean? I’m _always_ in a good mood,” he smarmed as coffee crept up the sides of the cup.

“Mm-hm,” she hummed. “You think Margie would agree with you?”

“I’m in a good mood till a customer has something to say,” he griped as he pumped in a shot of vanilla flavoring. “Especially Margie. Be careful now, Eliza. If you really like this mood, don’t keep threatening it.”

Eliza rolled her eyes, flashing him a smile. “Right. Don’t forget the milk again.”

He scoffed at that, finishing the drink and putting the lid on.

“Oscar?” He shouted to the room. “Oscar!”

Oscar collected his drink and went on his way.

Ford sighed, going back to his tune.

_There was a planet, round Betelgeuse flew…_

He pursed his lips and hummed that part over again.

_There was a planet, round Betelgeuse flew…_

His frown deepened.

_Round Betelgeuse flew…_

Ah. There went the good mood.

 

Ford Prefect landed a role as Judah. He strongly expected it was because he was one of about twelve men who’d auditioned, and the only tenor. Well, he’d take it.

The script, along with a few others he’d picked up from the secondhand bookstore by the theater, had been shoved haphazardly in his bag as he walked out of their first rehearsal.

It was noon on a thursday. Knowing Arthur’s lifestyle, he was probably sitting down for tea now. Wouldn’t mind him dropping in. At least he hoped he wouldn’t, because nothing was going to stop him from dropping in.

As he approached the house, however, Arthur Dent was laying on his back in the mud. This was a terrible place to have tea, and Arthur was very particular about his, so Ford made the logical leap that he probably wasn’t settling in for a cuppa.

The bulldozers helped fill out the rest of the picture.

“Hello, Arthur.”

“Hello, Ford.”

“Seems like you’ve had a nice day so far.”

Arthur was practically caked in mud. His pajamas were soaked through by now, and the back of his head was surely caked with the stuff.

“Well, actually, Ford,” Arthur snapped back, clearly a little past annoyed with the situation, “it’s been fucking awful, because these men are trying to tear down my house!”

He squatted down next to his friend in the mud. “So… you’ve been lying here since …”

“Nine in the morning, just about.”

Ford whistled. “Suspect you’re hungry by now, then.”

“Of course I am!”

He clicked his tongue as he processed the situation. “So… that little man wants to avoid running you over?”

Arthur nodded.

“But he _does_ want to run your house over,” Ford continued.

“What are you getting —“

“So, if you’re in the house, he can’t run it over.”

Arthur opened his mouth. He closed it again. He opened it again. In the whole process, he said nothing. Then, he covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“How in _God’s name_ did I not think of…”

“To be perfectly fair, this is a very grand gesture,” Ford comforted, holding out a hand.

Arthur took it, letting himself be hauled to his feet. Ford gave him a quick brush-off that didn’t accomplish much, but Arthur seemed grateful anyways.

Ford turned to the bulldozers. “We’re going in, then!”

A short man said something very mean to him, but he didn’t quite notice, because his eye was suddenly drawn to the sky.

It was like an SEP, almost — a strange, faint glimmer, for just a second. Ford felt a strange sense of nausea that vanished as quick as it appeared. He pursed his lips at the sky, but it didn’t seem to mind.

“Come on,” Arthur said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “If I don’t shower I’m going to start peeling my skin off.”

Ford fussed with the sub-etha sens-o-matic in his pocket. No signs from it earlier, and no signs from it now… he sighed, figuring it was one of the lizardmen that controlled the earth. You just couldn’t get anywhere with them. Regular homebodies.

He shut the door behind them as Arthur flopped into a kitchen chair, burying his face in his hands.

“Can you believe it?”

“Well, I saw it, so yes.”

“Don’t be clever right now,” Arthur snapped. He ran his fingers back through his hair, combing out the mud caked through it. He looked at his hands in disgust and sighed. “I’m sorry. Thank you for getting me out of the mud.”

There was a pounding at the door, and a lot of angry yelling.

“I’ll get it,” Ford said as Arthur stood. “Maybe go shower. Put some slacks on. A nice oxford. Look less like the ‘before’ picture of a rehabilitated mental patient and more like the ‘after’ picture.”

Arthur gave him a very, very, _very_ unconvinced look.

“Come on,” he said lightly, like it was the easiest decision in the world to make, “When have I ever let you down?”

“Plenty,” muttered Arthur. Despite that, he stood, shucking his dressing-gown and crinkling his nose as it audibly peeled from his back. “I’ll be quick. He’s a nasty little man.”

“Most are,” Ford returned as his friend disappeared down the hall.

The pounding at the door started up again. Ford started humming -- a little snippet from Joseph’s coat -- as he went about getting jam and bread from the cupboards.

_It was red and yellow and green and brown --_

“If you do not open the door THIS INSTANT,” the man pounding on the door squeaked, “I will call the police and have you thrown out myself!”

Ford popped the window next to the door open and leaned out. “Will this do?”

“I -- no, it… you…”

“Because, if you think about it, I have come out. At least the bit of me that I need for talking has.”

The little man looked nearly ready to go into a fit before he took a very deep breath and drew himself up to the loosest definition of ‘authoritative.’ “Excuse me, sir. I am Mr. Prosser, with the local development committee, and --”

Ford turned and walked back to the kitchen, snapping on the stove and filling the kettle.

“Sir! I was not finished!”

“I can hear you fine,” Ford returned. “That is what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

“What is your _name,_ sir,” Prosser snapped, quickly going back to being angry.

Settling the kettle down, Ford picked up a slice of bread and filled his knife with jam before crossing, very calmly, to the window.

“My name,” he deadpanned, “requires five discrete tongues to pronounce, a trait lost forever when Betelgeuse Seven, a planet named for the star it orbits, was destroyed in a fit of random, unfeeling violence by a universe so vast and infinite your little ape-brain could not comprehend a googolth of it.”

Mr. Prosser stared at him for a very long time. He looked like he had just now realized his infinite minisculity in a universe that would leave no impact on.

“Most people call me Ford, however,” he finished with a grin. “Lucky of you to join that proud tradition.”

“...Lunatics,” the little man muttered, backing away. “You’re both absolutely fucking mental!”

Ford winked and slammed the window shut. Settling the bread on a plate, he picked up another slice and got to work on it. Arthur’s ancient old cat, Vicky, wandered up to him and _mrrped_ indignantly until he leaned down and scratched her behind the ears. Where had he been? Right. _And blue. Doo doo-doo, doo doo-doo, doo doo..._

After a moment, Arthur walked back in, considerably less muddy and considerably nicer-dressed. He gave his hair one more ruffle with the towel before laying it over the back of the chair. He blinked as he saw the bread on the counter, then blinked again as the kettle whistled. He turned to Ford, who gave him a very wry smile.

“Don’t tell anyone I’ve ever said this,” Arthur said, rubbing over his exhausted eyes with his wrist, “but I absolutely cannot imagine getting on without you.”

“Not very English of you,” Ford teased, settling into a chair as the other man crossed behind him to retrieve the kettle. “But I’ll let it slide.”

Arthur chuckled, against all odds. He popped open the cupboard to pull down his tea and a mug. “Want some?”

Ford waved him off. He’d never cared for the stuff. Barely even had an interest in coffee.

“How did you get that little man to leave you alone?”

“It wasn’t hard, actually,” Ford replied, picking up one of the slices and nearly stuffing it into his mouth. “Strangest thing. I told him my name and he went pale and backed right off,” he finished through a full mouth.

“Huh.” Arthur looked towards the window where the workmen had taken up a nice game of cards on one of the massive wheels of the bulldozers. “Guess he’s more of general motors man.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Who’s that?” Arthur called, steeping his tea as he settled back into his chair.

“The police,” replied a voice remarkably more threatening then any they’d heard today.

Arthur took a moment to process that remark, then turned and gave Ford a look that spoke a thousand words. All of them were variations of the sentence ‘I’m going to kill you for this.’

Ford shrank back and took a much smaller bite of his bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally after posting this I realized that I fucked up the timeline. Oh well. enjoy. i dont know how to read


	3. Thursday, 10/18/1979

“You’re sure this is alright?”

Arthur asked this as he watched Vicky cautiously pick over the floor of Ford’s apartment, He was standing with a suitcase next to Ford’s couch. In that suitcase was all of his earthly possessions, besides the ones at his parent’s house and what he had stored in a unit about half an hour away. 

“Of course it’s fine,” Ford chirped, giving him a slap on the back. “I’m just sorry all I can offer is a couch.”

He watched as Arthur worried his lip, looking at the very beaten vinyl couch that would be his home for the next… while. He got the sense that Arthur was not convinced it was alright.

In the end, a policeman had very  _ firmly  _ told them that Arthur was to move out by the end of the week. Their protests were met with the fact that they shouldn’t be giving him the week at all, and also that he was very much bigger and stronger than the both of them put together. So they had taken him up on his offer, and now Arthur was sleeping on his couch for a while, because his parent’s house was an hour out, and his sister would never let him hear the end of it.

Arthur unzipped his suitcase with an uneasy sigh. “I can’t believe this has all happened.”

“Won’t be long,” Ford tried to comfort.

“It really won’t be,” Arthur returned, pulling out a thick wool jumper and settling it on the cluttered coffee table. “They said I’ll get the settlement within a month. I swear I’ll move out then, alright? I’ve even found an apartment that should do. On the top floor, even. So they can’t just go and knock it down.”

Ford chuckled, moving to sweep some of his mess out of the way. “Don’t worry about it. You can stay as long as you need.”

“I’ll try not to,” Arthur teased weakly. He scratched behind Vicky’s ears as she settled in on the arm of the couch. “I still have no idea why you fed him some stupid line about aliens.”

Ford shrugged. “I dunno. I guess I got the impression that he might believe it.”

Arthur laughed at that, which made Ford smile. Not the ‘go-for-the-throat’ one, which was odd, because he liked to use that one a lot, and he was very good at it. It was nice to see Arthur happy in the midst of this mess. Particularly because Ford was the one who had knocked a few things over in the process. 

He remembered the hastily-packed shoebox shoved up on the shelf of his closet. Despite his house’s messy state, he had gone through, top to bottom, making sure anything that  _ suggested  _ extraterrestrial life ended up somewhere it wouldn’t be found. He pursed his lips at the prospect of lying so low. Sure, Arthur had slept over before, but he was always either drunk or hungover, and he tended to keep the rest of his overnight guests busy in a way he had to assume Arthur wouldn’t be interested in. 

Arthur set the last of his things on the table, zipping the suitcase back up with a sigh. “I swear. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I get the check.”

“Don’t worry about being in my hair,” Ford teased. He pulled him in a one-armed hug, the quick and rough kind that is less likely to comfort and more likely to rustle them up a bit. “How about dinner? My treat, I’ve got a free side due at Hat Yai Paradise anyways.”

Arthur gave him another tired, but genuine, smile. “I’ll be damned if you pay for a bit of it.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Ford prodded, leading him to the door. “I’ll buy the side.”

 

“Ford!”

“Yeah?”

“Sharper on the step for ‘fair,’ alright? Really emphasize it,” the choreographer said. “One-two-three-four- _ there, _ ” she said, spinning and landing heavy in a crouch. “Got that? You’re out of time with the other brothers, make sure it’s sharp or you’ll fall behind.”

He nodded, and she rewound the tape. “Alright, from that, oh, you know --” she spun her hand aimlessly. “From that color chant thing. The first one. Red and yellow and whatnot.”

“She likes picking on you,” the man next to Ford muttered. 

“Eh, I’ve never been very good at choreography,” he shrugged. 

“Well. I don’t know what it means to you,” the man said, “but I think you’re a fantastic dancer.”

Something about his tone caught his attention. Ford turned, but the other man had already brushed away to his position. He was on the short side, dark-haired, looked a little younger than him. He’d stepped into a lunge in front of the man playing Joseph, glancing back and giving him a wry smile.

“Ford,” one of his castmates said as he walked past, “Come on, don’t piss her off.”

He looked at the other man for a second more before he joined his ‘brothers’ in their corner of the stage. He didn’t know his name -- he was pretty sure he played the pharaoh in the second act, but that was all he knew.

“Five-six-seven-eight --”

He snapped back to attention as the choreographer counted off.

 

“Alright, good work today. Make sure you’re practicing this at home, alright? I can’t teach you the whole thing every time. We’re going to do…” she referenced her notes and sighed. “Go go go Joseph next Thursday. I’ll email you if you’re called. You probably are.”

Ford mopped his brow with his sleeve. “They really can’t even drag a fan in, then?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” the man playing Reuben laughed. “She’s mental. Won’t turn the fan on because it’s ‘not show conditions.’”

“She’s going to be carrying me to the fucking hospital, then,” He griped. 

The others laughed at that and carried on, but Ford’s eye was drawn to something else. 

Across the stage, the man who’d complimented his dancing was leaned against the stage, talking to some of the female ensemble. He turned and caught his eye, then gave him that same little smile from before.

“...I’ll see you all Saturday, then,” Ford said, giving one of the other brothers a half-hearted clap on the back.

He vaguely heard them shout goodbyes as he made his way over to the other man. 

“You’re the pharaoh, right?”

“You’re observant,” the smaller man replied. He held out his hand for a shake. “I’m Oliver. You seem interesting. Want to grab dinner?”

Ford did.

 

It was about midnight when he was fussing with his keys at the door. His hair was nearly ratty with tousling, bruises ran up and down his neck -- dinner had meant exactly what he’d through it had. 

It was far more difficult to snag a human man then it was a human woman. He guessed it was because a lot of folks didn’t seem to like the idea. He tended to take his chances when they came up.

Stumbling into his apartment, he mindlessly fumbled for the lights. As he flicked them on, there was a groan of near-pain from the couch.

“Oh, shit,” he apologized, fumbling for the switch again. “Forgot you were here, sorry.”

“It’s…” Arthur sat up, prompting an upset  _ murp _ from Vicky. “It’s fine. I… what time is it?”

“Midnight.”

“Midnight!”

“Yeah, midnight.”

“What on earth kept you out until midnight on a thursday?”

Ford shrugged. “I had dinner with a castmate.”

Arthur quirked an eyebrow. “Until midnight?”

“It was a good dinner, I don’t know.”

“Must’ve been.”

“Well… better then you’d probably expect, just by looking at it, you know?”

Arthur looked confused. 

Ford dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Nevermind. ‘Night, then, Arth--”

“Wait! Oh, hold on, wait…”

Ford did, though he wasn’t very happy to do it, and he made sure it came across in how he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with a sigh. “What?”

“You’ll never believe this, hold on --”

“Oh, try me.”

Arthur was ruffling around the papers on the table desperately. Vicky  _ murped _ again in protest, jumping off the couch with a graceless thud and moving to rub against Ford’s legs as he watched his friend ravage his post like a man possessed. He finally found a letter and held it up. “Look!”

Ford squinted at the print. “Oh, is that your check?”

“Yeah, yes, it’s my check, but Ford,  _ look. _ ” He ran over and hit the lights, then thrust the paper into his friend’s hands. “Look at how much they gave me!”

Ford squinted. He wasn’t quite sure he was reading it right. “Does it really say…”

“Twenty pounds? For my entire house? Yes, in fact, it does, Ford!” Arthur was practically ravenous, digging through the papers again. “Here, here, and look at this…” he thrust another sheet into his hands, jabbing a finger at the opening line. “Read that!”

“Due to an evaluation of your home and the property it was built on, your return has been evaluated at thirty-eight thousand pounds,” he read under his breath. “However, due to the special circumstances of the claiming of this property, we have deducted all fines you would otherwise have to pay anyways as a courtesy to you. Have a wonderful day,” he finished, and the paper was snatched from his hands. 

“Can you believe it? Can you honestly believe it!” Arthur snarled, throwing the paper onto the table in a fury. “I’ve spent all day since I got home from work one the phone with them. They may as well have laughed at me. I’m going down tomorrow, Ford, tomorrow, and I’m going to burn their building to the bloody ground, then stomp on the ashes, stomp them till they’re just dust, and then I’ll scoop up that dust and --”

“No,” said Ford, laying a caring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “From the bottom of my heart, Arthur, you absolutely won’t.”

“Oh, you think I won’t?”

“No. I know you won’t.” He flopped down onto the couch with a sigh, patting the cushion for Arthur to join him. He knew he should have just stayed the night. “I know you’ll go down there, get very cross with the secretary, but as soon as you’re buzzed through to anyone in a nicer suit then you, you’ll be very scared of them and give it up after a few rounds.”

“I… of course I wouldn’t just…” Arthur pursed his lips at him so he’d know that he was very angry. Ford had already gathered. After a moment, he sighed and flopped down on the couch. “...I would just.”

Ford gave him a consolatory pat on the back. “Hey, now,” he soothed. “The universe is inherently meaningless and governments doubly so. Want to go out and get a drink?”

Arthur gave him a look that was a healthy blend of confused and concerned. “It’s Thursday, Ford.”

“Well, no. It’s Friday.” he picked up Arthur’s wrist, checking his watch. “It’s twelve ten. And it’s night. So, if you think about it, it’s Friday night, and a perfectly acceptable time to be drinking.”

Arthur groaned. Ford startled as his head flopped down and landed on his shoulder. Well… it made sense, he guessed. Arthur usually wouldn’t lean on him like that. Arthur also usually wasn’t mourning the loss of his home and nearly entire way of life. So, cautiously, Ford pulled him into a hug. 

“...That joke was pretty funny,” Arthur said after a moment, listlessly scratching Vicky’s ears as she joined them on the couch.

“Thanks.”

“You smell awful.”

“I haven’t had time to shower.”

“...These are hickies on your neck, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, I didn’t really have dinner.” Ford paused, then corrected himself. “Well, I did have dinner. But that was a precursor to --”

“I know, Ford.”

“...Right.”

Arthur sighed. It was one of those long, exhausted, through-the-nose sighs. 

They stayed like that for a while. Ford gnawed his lip. He felt… odd. He didn’t know why, but something about this moment was off to him. Not in a bad way. In a way he couldn’t place. Like… it was nice. Of course, he felt bad for Arthur, but this was nice. He did the arithmetic in his head -- portioning it out, part of it could be chalked up to a nice afterglow that was still struggling to keep a hold on his brain. Another part of it was caring for Arthur in a rough time in his life. Another part of it was just caring for Arthur. Caring for Arthur.

Caring for Arthur…

Oh, no.

He cared for Arthur.

He almost groaned out loud. This was going to complicate things terribly. 

He’d tried liking people before and it had never gone well for him. He’d dated a nice girl back on Betelgeuse five for a few months until she left him for Zaphod, which had turned out to be the plan all along. 

While he was sure nothing like that would happen with Arthur -- no, no, he had to stop and correct himself. Nothing  _ would  _ happen with Arthur at all. 

Because eventually, he would get picked up by some passerby, and that seemed like a much messier attachment to just up and sever. That’s why he had never settled down anywhere. Why bother? There was the rest of the galaxy waiting.

He sighed and pulled Arthur a little closer. He should have known. He should have known when he’d first bumped him up, in his mind’s eye, from a five to a six. Later to a seven. Seven was about where he sat now, but with this troubling realization Ford could only assume it might tick up again soon. 

“Sorry,” Arthur finally mumbled from against his shoulder. “It’s been… quite a day. You’re probably exhausted.”

Ford hummed. “Well, I had a bit of a better day than you.”

Arthur made a noise that might have been a laugh and might have been holding back tears. Against his better judgement, Ford reached up and smoothed down his hair.

“It’ll be fine, you know?” he soothed. “You can stay here for as long as you need. You’re not the  _ worst  _ person I’ve roomed with.”

“I’m sorry to keep you up,” Arthur said suddenly, sitting up. “I’ll… I’m going down to my parent’s place tomorrow. We’ll talk things out, maybe I can move in with my sister…”

“You really are fine to stay here.”

Arthur looked at him for a long while. 

“...You’re sure?” He said, bordering on disbelief. 

Ford just nodded. 

“... I … Ford, I’m not going to take advantage of your hospitality —“

“Oh, of course not,” Ford smiled. “You’ll pay half the rent.”

Against all odds, Arthur Dent laughed. 


	4. Thursday, 10/25/1979

Ford was sitting up, pondering the man asleep on his couch. 

He had come home from rehearsal to find dinner cooked. Mind you, it was spaghetti and meatballs, but still. It was more than he ever made on his own. 

They’d sat up, eating and chatting in the living room, absently letting the TV fill in the gaps in conversation. He’d finally twirled up a bite of pasta, considered it, and turned to Arthur. 

“Arthur?”

“Hm?” Arthur asked, intelligently thumbing away the sauce at the corner of his mouth. 

“Why did you make dinner?”

Arthur paused, looking into his bowl, as if he was confused as well. After a moment, he shrugged. “Dunno. Went to Tesco, figured you’d be hungry —“

“You went shopping?”

Arthur blinked, startled by the incredulous tone. “... Of course I went shopping, Ford, you barely had anything around the house —“

“Ahh…” Ford gnawed his thumb for a moment, thinking of his bank balance and where it currently sat in the low twenties. “Well, I’m paid next week, if that’s...“

Arthur looked even more confused. “You can’t be serious.”

“... I can’t?”

“I… well, only for a bit, but I live here now,” Arthur said, spinning himself up another forkful of spaghetti. “So I’m going to cover some things. I’ll buy groceries now and then. Cook dinner, clean up, you know. Just be helpful.”

“Christ,” said Ford, before he could censor himself, “I didn’t realize I was bringing in a housewife.”

The meaning of his words hit him the second after they were said, and he hurriedly jammed another meatball in his mouth to prevent further speaking. 

Against all odds, Arthur laughed. “Wanker.”

Ford felt the metaphysical bullet whistle past his ear.

“Speaking of, I think I’ve found the reason you’ve never kept a girlfriend past a week.”

“Fear of commitment?”

“No.”

“Thirty-something working minimum wage?”

“Probably doesn’t help.”

“They find out that I’m an alien from Betelgeuse?”

“No, but… actually, you aren’t very far off.” Arthur turned to face him. “You understand that you have stacks of magazines stuffed everywhere?”

Ford nodded. “S’for when I’m bored.”

“They are  _ exclusively  _ pornography or garbage about UFOs written by crazy people.”

“Right.”

“And, I can’t tell which balance of those two things I’d find  _ more  _ reassuring, but there were almost  _ twice  _ the number of alien rags! They must find one of those things and bolt!”

Ford stirred his spaghetti uneasily. Oh, yeah. Arthur lived in his house and could find all of his secrets with a little spring cleaning. “I’m not too worried about it.”

“You don’t want to settle down with a nice girl? Most men our age are married, you know.”

“Right,” Ford said with a chuckle. “I should take relationship advice from you.”

Arthur pursed his lips and looked ready to protest before he sighed and went back to his plate. Ford, knowing he’d won, stuck his tongue out (still covered in chunks of chewed up meat) and wrinkled his nose up. 

“That’s disgusting, Ford, stop that.”

“Yes, dear.”

Because, where was better to hide then plain sight? 

And maybe he just wanted to call Arthur ‘dear.’ Maybe just a little. 

Either way, it worked. 

 

Ford chewed his cheek, then popped another cold spoonful of spaghetti in his mouth. He was eating it from the tupperware at about three in the morning, as he was wont to do. He could see the silhouette and little else of the man asleep on his couch, but sometimes a car would pass, and the headlights would brighten up his features for a brief moment.

Ford kept looking at him. He tried to unravel his thoughts. 

Ford Prefect had always considered himself laid-back on the quantum level. His atoms could often be found with their electrons kicked up as they enjoyed a nice stiff drink with the other fellows they were bonded to to make up chemicals and other nonsense. Ford Prefect stared danger in the face and valiantly shrugged in noble nonchalance. Ford stared into the gaping maw of hell and mulled over where to get drinks next. 

So it was odd that a little man on earth was making him worry. 

He took another bite, staring at the man on the couch. It was probably odd to watch your friend sleep.  _ Well,  _ he rationalized in his own head,  _ I’m not watching him sleep, I’m eating spaghetti, he’s just there.  _ He took another bite and wondered which of his brain cells had stitched together that particularly stupid thought. 

_ Alright,  _ he thought to himself,  _ alright. Let’s find A, B, and C, and line them all up, and find out what I’m spelling.  _

Arthur was his best friend. He had slept on his couch for a week as his complex had an exterminator come in and spray some terribly poisonous stuff everywhere to deal with the cockroaches. In that week, he hadn’t made him spaghetti, not even once. He pursed his lips and reminded himself to stay on topic. 

Arthur was his best friend. He’d stayed on his couch several times before. They’d helped each other out of several tight spots along the way.

On that week, when they’d sprayed for roaches, Arthur had sat down with him outside and followed his eyes up to the stars. 

Ford looked at Betelgeuse a lot. It was bright, and red, and demanded to be seen. Arthur had lightly asked if he’d spotted any of those green spaceships he was always looking for.  

He’d answered, in complete honesty, that he hadn’t, and he was worried he never would. That he sometimes worried they’d stopped flying green ships around altogether. 

Of course Arthur didn’t understand what he’d meant. It’d be crazy if he did. 

But he still put a hand on his shoulder and left it there. 

“I don’t know what you mean by green spaceships, Ford,” he’d said after a while, “but I doubt people’d stop looking for you. I think you’re pretty remarkable, you know?”

Ford had looked up at the sky until Arthur helped him to his feet and they went in and ordered chinese. 

Ford chewed his thumb again, looking at the figure on the couch. Yeah, there it was. That was what it was. 

Arthur was the first man on earth who took care of him. 

A hand on the shoulder, a meal, a place to sleep — he took care of him. 

Ford took another bite of his spaghetti. That was why he was scared. Because he liked Arthur, and if Arthur suddenly decided he didn’t feel the same (as he’d found men were wont to do after they truly understood what he was offering) he’d be carrying himself almost entirely on his own. 

And life is a very heavy thing sometimes. Especially when you are far from home. Especially when the world is so often different from your own. Especially when the old songs are starting to fade from your memory, and you’ve no way to hear them fresh. 

He snapped out of his thoughts as Vicky stretched and yawned, worried for a moment that it was Arthur, challenging him for watching him sleep like an absolute creep. He cursed the cat under his breath as his fork scraped the bottom of the container. He stopped, glancing down at the empty tupperware, then to the clock on the wall. Thursdays — or, well, technically today, he corrected himself — were his early shift, and he was due there in three hours. 

With a sigh, he dropped the tupperware in the sink and walked back to bed. He settled in and stared at the ceiling. 

He wanted to be taken care of. 

Another thought bubbled up in his mind, chewing on it for a moment as he himself chewed his lip. 

He wanted to take care of someone. 

It was disgustingly domestic, soft, silly, a bad idea to pursue all around. Earth was getting to him, he told himself. No more of those sappy dramas he’d been reading, no more of that Shakespeare. 

But the thought still persisted. 

He rolled over and faced the wall. 

He’d make breakfast tomorrow. He didn’t know why, but he knew he would. 


	5. Thursday, 11/1/1979

The door swung open, and Ford turned to offer it a grin. 

Arthur blinked back at him, seemingly confused. 

“You’re home early,” he said after a moment. “Don’t you usually go from work to rehearsal?”

Ford nodded. “Wasn’t called today. It’s that pharaoh song, you know? The one in act two?”

Arthur shook his head, appearing in the doorway. “Not even a little.”

“No, you know, it’s like…” Ford wiggled his hips a bit, dropping his voice to a barely-decipherable Elvis impression. “Well I was walking along, by the banks of the river —“

“Ford, I’ve never heard the show, I’m not going to —“

“When seven fat cows came up out of the Nile,” he continued, plucking a ladle up from the counter and spinning around with a flourish. “Uh-huh!”

Arthur laughed, drawing in a bit as he leaned against the doorframe. “You look positively mad.”

Ford just gave him a smile and spun over next to him. “And right behind these fine, healthy animals —“ he continued, punctuating each word with a hip-bump, “came seven other cows, skinny and vile, uh-huh!”

“Alright, alright —“ Arthur laughed. He snatched the spoon away, turning to face the other man. “Save it for the show, or something. I don’t know.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

“I didn’t ask!”

“Well, you’re the one who gripes about how you’ve never heard me sing,” he offered in turn. “Now you have. You’re welcome.”

“When have I griped about not hearing you sing?”

“Every time I hum! Hell, even when I’m just whistling, even,” he shot back, leaning on the other side of the doorway to face Arthur. “So there it was. You’re welcome.”

Arthur snorted. “Well, for one, I wasn’t  _ annoyed _ that I hadn’t heard it. I was just… I don’t know, pointing out something odd, I suppose, with you being an actor and all. Secondly —“

“Well, I’ve never heard  _ you  _ sing!”

“Wh — why on earth would I —“

“You work in radio,” Ford said, as if he thought that logical leap made sense. “So I think it’s just as odd.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Secondly —“

“Why don’t you break off a note right now, then? Serenade me,” Ford teased, ruffling the other man’s hair. 

“SECONDLY,” Arthur started again, “I was simply saying I’ve never heard you when you’re  _ trying.” _ He began to push his hair back to its’ natural shape. “Christ. Let me finish a thought, for once.”

“Maybe say more interesting things,” Ford chirped, going back to stirring the contents of a large pot. 

Arthur didn’t give that a response, instead picking Vicky up from where she was weaving between his feet. “You’re cooking?”

“I got home early,” he reiterated. “Keep up, man.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” Arthur muttered, occupied with scratching Vicky’s chest. “Let alone do it of your own free will. That it, Ford?” He teased gently, looking up from the cat. “Get abducted on your way back and replaced by a real adult?”

“I  _ wish, _ ” Ford said with a snort. “Though, those are big words for a man living on my couch.”

“Knock it off, Ford,” he muttered. “I pay rent now. If anything, I should be owed a bed.” Not pressing the matter further, Arthur leaned over and peeked into the pot. “Looks good. What is it?”

Ford blanched for a moment. 

The name of this dish was exorundian calibeefrisket. It was a staple in several restaurants across the universe, originating, of course, in the betelgeuse system. Well, it was the closest equivalent he could whip up. Not a lot of Jupiter-raised beef around. He stared into the pot, trying to find a believable equivalent in something he’d eaten on earth. It was a bit like an American dish he’d tried once. Soup? No, too thick. Stew? Thinner then that, God, what a stupid thing to be caught on, like he hadn’t lied his way out of multiple arrests in the most dangerous star systems in the galaxy, and now he was stumped trying to remember something as little as -- 

“Some kind of chili?” Arthur provided after a long moment.

“Chili!” Ford nearly shouted, startling man and cat alike. 

There was a moment of silence before Ford cleared his throat. 

“Chili, right,” Ford muttered, going back to stirring. “Was caught on the word is all.”

“...Right,” Arthur finally said. “You alright, Ford?”

“Absolutely wonderful. You know, I heard you earlier. Reading about the weather. Eliza tuned into it on the cafe’s radio. Great… you read that, you read the weather… you read it good. Or well. You did a great job with the weather, Arthur. In case you were wondering.”

“...Well, thank you, I guess.” Arthur’s brow creased with concern, and Ford was brought back to a certain office ten years ago. “I’m going to change, then.”

Ford just hummed in response, lips pursed shut to prevent any other dumb comment from leaving his mouth.  _ This planet’s dulled my edge,  _ he thought, watching beans and rice tumble over each other as he stirred.  _ All this domestic garbage, really.  _ He brought the wooden spoon to his mouth and took a sip. Fine, especially for his ability, but missing something. He pondered it for a moment. Some spice, some spice…

He sighed as he realized what it was. Rundian, a spice from the pulverized seeds of the Rundi plant, like the kind that used to grow outside his mother’s house on betelgeuse five. A house he hadn’t visited in eighteen years now. A house he hadn’t had the  _ urge  _ to visit in 18 years. When had he last contacted his mother? Since when did he care, between zipping through different bars and grungy corners of the universe -- 

He pushed the thought down and used pepper instead. It was close enough. Not really, but it would do, because it had to.

“Mrrp.”

Ford jumped out of his skin, whirling around and pointing his spoon at Vicky. Hot drops of sauce splattered onto her long fur, and she yowled in fury and bolted down the hall. Ford sighed and turned back to the pot, dropping the spoon in and covering his eyes with a groan. He had to get out of his head. He had to stop thinking so much. Go out with some of the brothers from Joseph, maybe, or -- 

“Ford?”

He jumped again. He caught himself on the grungy counter and took a deep breath. “Right?”

Arthur stared at him for a moment. “... You alright?”

“Of course I’m alright,” Ford snapped. “Perfectly alright. What’s the matter, huh?”

“...Nothing.” Arthur fused with a loose thread on his sweater. “Nothing's the matter. Just wanted to ask if you’d like to go down to Spoons tonight. Don’t have work tomorrow because of some maintenance being done. It’s been a while since we’ve properly been drinking.”

In his head, Ford was doing backflips. Just when he was getting frustrated with Arthur -- or, well, the  _ effects  _ of Arthur -- he went ahead and read his mind. Though, he had to admit, a pub wouldn’t cut it for the amount of out-of-his-head he needed to be. 

He tapped the spoon on the rim of the bowl and gave Arthur that very unnatural smile he liked to use. “How about something a little different?”

Arthur looked at him with a mixture of confusion and fear. It was a face Ford saw from him a lot. “How different?”

“One of my castmates told me about a little place just a few blocks from here,” Ford said as casually as he could. “Lots of music, lots of lights, lots of dancing --”

“A club?” Arthur asked, incredulous. “Ford, I don’t think --”

“Oh, think about it, Arthur!” He chirped, cutting him off. “Tell me, about how old are the women in the horse and groom, hm?”

“Our age, maybe a bit older. What are you getting at?”

“And how old are women who go to clubs?”

“I don’t think --”

“Our age, maybe younger?”

“Maybe?” Arthur said, incredulous. “They’re all University students!”

“Absolutely not true!” Ford returned. “I’ve gone there, some of my castmates have, we’re all what, 25, a bit more?”

“You are  _ thirty-three  _ years old.”

Ford considered bringing up that he was really more in the range of 200 for a moment before shrugging. “You’re thirty-five.”

“And that’s why I go to pubs!” Arthur sighed, rubbing the bags under his eyes. “We’re not going clubbing. I don’t want to be that absolute creep on the sidelines, eyeing up twenty-year-olds like it’s the produce section.”

“Alright, let’s compromise,” Ford said after a moment. He pulled two bowls down and poured one for Arthur, holding it out to him with a flourish. “There’s a pub about five streets down. Every Thursday, starting --” he checked his watch, “-- In an hour, they have a karaoke night. You gripe about not hearing me sing, fine. But you’ll be returning the favor. Deal?”

Arthur took the bowl slowly, mulling over the idea. “I don’t think I can get up and sing unless I’m very drunk, is all.”

Ford gave him another carnivorous smile. “Sounds perfect, then.”

Arthur laughed. “Fine, fine. You have a deal.”

“Maybe you’ll even bring a girl home tonight, hm?”

“Right, yeah. Nothing more attractive than a man taking you back to his friend’s couch.”

“Hey!” Ford scolded through a mouthful. “...It’s a nice couch, at least. You’re not embarrassed of me, are you?”

Arthur chuckled. “If I was too embarrassed of you, we’d have stopped talking a long time ago.”

Ford laughed and realized he didn’t have a retort. So he let them fall into silence.

And, for the first time he could remember, he felt no urge to fill it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! Left my computer at home during spring break and had to wait for it to be shipped up. Will go back to normal posting now.


	6. Thursday, 11/8/1979

Ford sat on the couch of his apartment and stared at the far wall. 

Arthur lived at his sister’s house now. She and her husband had come over and helped move everything while he was at rehearsal last Friday, according to his neighbor. He understood why. Arthur hadn’t left a note, or a voicemail, or anything, really, but he understood why. 

 

“Come on, why did we even go out to karaoke if you aren’t going to sing?”

“I don’t…” Arthur trailed off, taking another long swig of his beer. “I can hardly sing, is all.”

“Neither can half of the people who’ve gone up,” Ford returned, spinning has drink. He’d asked the bartender to surprise him and she had succeeded. He took another sip. Probably one of the strongest, sweetest things he’d had on earth. He slid it over to Arthur and gave him that slightly-unsettling smile. “Come on, come on. Try a sip of that.”

Arthur picked it up and spun it, watching the ice cubes clatter over each other. “What’s in it?”

Ford shrugged.

“Seems awfully fruity,” Arthur muttered.

“You’re awfully fruity,” Ford retorted without thinking. Unlike the last few weeks, he didn’t immediately regret saying something so forward. He was a few ‘surprise mes’ in at this point. God, he loved being drunk. He loved it so much that he decided to say it out loud. 

“I noticed.” Arthur gave the drink one more once-over before he took a sip. His eyebrows jumped in surprise, and he pulled away to cough. “Jesus Christ, Ford, what is that, whiskey and cough syrup?”

“Pooh-pooh, Arthur,” he said with a wave of his hand, “I’m sure they have some milk behind the counter for the likes of you.”

“Just because I don’t drink arsenic --”

“Just because you know I could drink you under the table, more,” Ford retorted. 

Arthur glared at him for a moment, then turned to where the bartender sat, listlessly listening to someone butcher some old love song. “Six shots of whiskey, if you don’t mind.”

Ford looked at him as if he’d grown another head -- that is to say, with an extreme fondness and a little more attraction then he’d usually let slip through. “Arthur Dent, are you suggesting…?”

The other man took a deep breath as the shots were placed in front of him. “Let’s see what I remember from university, yeah?”

“A little tame. I usually play with ten.”

“Then you can buy the other four,” Arthur returned, lining up the glasses. “First to the middle wins.”

“Wins what?”

“Wins… I don’t know, the contest.”

“No, no, no. How about this --” Ford grinned and pointed at the stage. “Winner picks the song, loser sings it.”

He saw fear flash in Arthur Dent’s eyes for a moment. He picked up the first shot and spun it.

“Or, if you’re too scared, I can --”

Ford nearly jumped as Arthur tossed the first shot back without another second of hesitation. 

“Jesus Christ, man!”

He only had time to watch Arthur nearly choke before he grabbed the first one on his side. He slammed it down, picked up the second, downed it, slammed it down -- 

And beat Arthur out by only a second as he grabbed the third. 

“Nice try,” He laughed, setting the final glass down with a flourish. “Did better than I thought you would.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Arthur groaned.

“Thought you had me, huh?”

The terrible singer wailing on the mic slowly wound down. Arthur glanced back at him. “Never wanted someone that sounded like a cat being run over to keep singing so much in my entire life.”

“Alright, alright, alright. I’ll make you a deal,” Ford said, tapping the counter to get his attention. “A duet. But you’ll sing the main part.”

“Ford --”

“Come on!” he said, hopping off of his stool. As soon as his feet hit the ground, his knees nearly buckled. Wow, he could not hold liquor like he used to. Arthur caught him before he crumpled to the ground in a heap. 

“Are you alright?”

“No worse than you,” he managed, trying to get his footing. The world swam a bit, but that was par for the course. He tugged the other man a bit, trying to pull him off his stool. “Come on, come on, someone else might hop up --”

Arthur stumbled a bit as well, but not nearly as bad as Ford, and let himself be dragged to the front of the room. Ford caught him trying to peek over his shoulder as the drunker man tapped his request into the computer, so he shifted and blocked his view. 

“Ford, how am I supposed to --”

“You’ll know,” Ford replied, struggling to find the right keys to press. He flashed him a smile, and Arthur groaned.

As the man from earlier stepped off the stage, Ford grabbed the other’s hand and practically dragged him up, shoving the mic into his hands.

“Ford, I don’t think I can --”

The speaker played the first few moments of the song. Arthur’s eyes jumped from the speaker, to the screen, to the man on stage with him, who was grinning like an idiot.

“You didn’t,” Arthur practically whispered.

“I did,” Ford returned. 

Arthur swallowed hard and turned to the screen. “I-If you see a faded sign at the side of the road, th-that says, ‘fifteen miles to the --’”

“LOOOVVVEEE  _ SHACK _ ,” Ford belted, throwing his head back so hard his hat flew off.

He suddenly had the attention of the entire bar. This included Arthur. Ford was very, very happy about this. He set his hand on the other man’s shoulder and walked around him like a circling shark. He ended up leaning heavily on Arthur, propping his elbow up on his shoulder and almost making the taller man stumble. “Love shack, yeah, yeah…” His head was turned away from Arthur, but he felt his gaze. Could just tell how he was staring at him slack-jawed. God, he loved it. “Headed down the Atlanta high-way,” he sang with less slurring then he’d expected. “Lookin’ for the love… getaway…” He went to step away from Arthur and tripped over his own feet. He stumbled, and felt a hand grab him at the elbow.

Arthur was looking down at him, his face a mix of amazement and concern.

Ford gave him the wryest look he could muster and grabbed Arthur’s arm as well. “Headed for the lo-ove, getaway --”

Arthur stared at him for a moment before he looked back at the screen in a shock. “Oh, I, ah… I’ve got me a car, it’s as big as a whale --” Ford saw his eyes flick back to him as he valiantly struggled to pull himself back up to a standing position. He startled as Arthur suddenly pulled him back to his feet, still singing. 

The entire bar was watching. And, to his amazement, Arthur seemed to be enjoying himself.

The man wasn’t dancing, by any stretch of the imagination. But he was bopping along, nodding his head, swaying from side to side -- 

And, suddenly, Ford realized, holding his hand. 

Somewhere in the process, Arthur’s hand had slipped from his elbow to his palm, and he was now holding him steady. Their fingers weren’t laced or any nonsense like that. But Arthur wasn’t letting go. 

And for that moment, Ford was simply enrapt in this silly little man from earth. 

So enrapt, in fact, that Arthur had to point to the screen to get him to notice that it was his turn to sing again. 

 

From there out, he only remembered snippets. 

A short moment from the walk home, with Arthur laughing at something he’d said.

Fumbling with his keys in the doorway.

Arthur asking him something important. He couldn’t remember what.

 

And then they woke up next to each other in bed.

He’d had a headache to end the world, and stumbled out of bed to find that he was still in his underwear. Confused at that, as usually when he woke up in bed next to somebody he was naked, he stumbled to close the blinds and caught sight of his sheets in the mirror.

There was Arthur Dent. Fast asleep. 

His mind tried to race, but found it couldn’t yet. So, failing that, he snapped the blinds shut and got back into bed. He faced Arthur for a while, taking in the details of his face, and the little hickey on his neck, and decided that if it was a dream, at least it was a nice one. 

 

Arthur was gone the next time he woke up. 

When he got back from rehearsal, he found that everything Arthur had brought there was gone as well, save a bit of Vicky's fur in the fibers of the couch.

 

Ford stared at the far wall of his apartment.

Arthur hadn’t left a note, or a voicemail, or anything, really. 

He thought he knew why. 

But he desperately hoped he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know love shack wasn't out until 1989 but if you have a better song for this situation I'd love to hear it


	7. Thursday, 11/8/1979 - Thursday, 11/29/1979

Ford got up at seven and went to his early shift. He worked with Eliza, because he always did on Thursdays. She told some story about her cat ruining a nice dress she’d just bought, and he nodded along. Eventually, she asked if he was alright. He waved it off, but she patted him on the shoulder and told him she’d listen if he wanted to talk. 

He got off at one, because he always did on Thursdays, and went to rehearsal. They were about halfway to show day now. It was an act two run, which meant he had to sing. At the end of rehearsal, he received a note that he was “sloppy,” and that he needed to “review his music.” The director came up to him as everyone filtered out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. She asked him what was wrong. He blamed it on being tired and she gave him a quick hug and a well wish. He didn’t mention that every second on stage made him feel nauseous. The brothers invited him to Curry Club at Spoons, but Ford waved them off.

He got home at six, because he always did on Thursdays, and turned on the TV. He flipped to some science fiction movie, stopped, and clicked past it. He landed on some schlocky horror movie that he forgot as soon as he watched it. He had a peanut butter sandwich for dinner and went to bed. 

 

Ford got up at seven and went to his early shift. He worked with Eliza, because he always did on Thursdays. She talked about some new bar by her apartment and invited him to come with her to check it out. He declined, and she laughed and claimed that he’d been picked up and replaced by someone else. He laughed back, and pretended he couldn’t tell that she saw straight through him. 

He got off at one, because he always did on Thursdays, and went to rehearsal. They were running individual scenes while everyone was being fit for costumes. As the lady taking his measurements took his wingspan, he felt eyes on him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Oliver look him up and down before giving him a wry smile and ducking out of the doorway. Ford turned to face straight again and closed his eyes to edge off his forming headache. 

He got home at six, because he always did on Thursdays, and turned on the TV. He watched a cricket match for a few minutes before remembering he didn’t have a damn clue how the game worked. He flipped through, aimlessly, and somehow found himself watching a cooking show. That reminded him to eat his pot noodles. They didn’t look quite as good as the pie the woman was making, but hey. Not like he was going to bother making a pie. He woke up at three in the morning on his couch and dragged himself to his bed proper. 

 

Ford got up at seven and went to his early shift. He worked with Eliza, because he always did on Thursdays. He was late, but Eliza said nothing about it. Halfway through his shift, he messed up the order of someone in a very nice suit. The man had a lot of opinions about Ford that he was very eager to loudly share with the rest of the line. Eliza gave his shoulder a squeeze as the man stormed away. Ford started making the next order. 

He got off at one, because he always did on Thursdays, and went to rehearsal. Another act two run meant he was singing again. He missed his entrance into the second verse and stumbled over the rest of the song. His “brothers” gave him a little good natured teasing, as they were wont to do, and he bit his lip as hard as he could to keep from tackling each one to the ground and beating them senseless. 

He got home at six, because he always did on Thursdays, and turned on the TV. He flipped through and found nothing. He kept flipping. He kept flipping. He kept flipping. He got angry. He turned off the TV and went to the window. He threw it open and stuck out his thumb. 

Nothing happened. 

Just like every other time. 

Just like every other day, week, month, year, decade —

Decade. 

Decade.

Decade. 

A blink in the great expanse of time. Nothing next to creatures he’d met himself. Less the nothing, pointless, worthless, unnoticeable —

He had spent a decade on the planet earth. 

He had  _ wasted  _ a decade on the planet earth. 

There, he’d admit it. It was a waste. 

It was a pointless, silly planet. Decent technology, below average civilizations, subpar bars, five out of ten. There was no excitement. No  _ spice.  _ Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing! NOTHING!

But… he’d had fun here. 

That was what really stung. 

There was something thrilling about dragging someone along into excitement. He’d spent most of his time with others as traveled as himself. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But they always nodded, quipped, handled the situation as cleverly as they could. But on earth, there was something else. 

The way Arthur Dent looked at him when he said something absurd. The way he laughed with him, occasionally at him. The way he lit up when something tiny, mundane, but in his mind, wonderful came his way. 

And of course, it extended past Arthur. Eliza talked for days about a handsome customer. His castmates formed customs, injokes, rituals, central to this show, that would disappear when it ended. Earth was full of silly little spots of light. 

Like some intern at a bank taking you to McDonalds. 

Silly, pointless, and negligible in the great expanse of everything. 

Earth was unspeakably bland. 

But humanity?

Humanity was what made it worth the while. 

Ford stared up at the stars. He looked at the little red dot in the shoulder of what they called Orion. In the month Arthur had lived on his couch, he realized, he hadn’t been looking for spaceships.

He closed the window and turned to the couch. 

Life was a very heavy thing sometimes. 

He missed the man who’d helped him carry it. 


	8. Thursday, 12/5/1979

Days passed. Ford got better. Not fully better, of course -- he was quieter, a little more reserved, but he was able to push it down and go through the day-to-day with less issue. 

He went out drinking with friends. He messed around with Oliver and some girl he met in a club. He mouthed off to rude customers. 

He looked for green spaceships. 

_ Really, this is for the best,  _ Ford told himself, head hanging out the window, eyes locked on Orion.  _ I was getting obnoxiously domestic. Far too attached. Very un-Fordish of me.  _

He ducked back into his room and jabbed at a few buttons on one of the doo-dads he’d set back up on his coffee table. 

_ I mean,  _ he thought to himself, watching the signal read back as “negative” once again and immediately moving to the next one,  _ he’d have found one of these things eventually. Really, I’m just lucky he didn’t. He’d have comitted me to a home. Or stole it away and sold it to the BSP.  _ He winced to think of what his editor would have had to say about that. 

“And furthermore,” Ford said to his empty apartment, hardly noticing the switch, “I’ll bet his dick is absolutely average. A little below average, even. I’d remember it if it wasn’t, right? ABSOLUTELY right. And I’d say that I deserve the  _ best  _ the galaxy has to --” 

He caught sight of himself in the reflection of one of his signalers. Even the stage makeup he still had caked on (because, so close to showtime, we need to treat every performance like opening night!) wasn’t covering up the crazy. Just then, the negative readout played again, washing his face in red light. 

Ford sighed and slumped back into his couch. He liked to be a little bit crazy, really, he did, but this wasn’t the fun kind that ended with him waking up in an unknown woman’s room with a hangover and aches in places he could not comprehend a reason for. This was the kind of crazy that was going to end with him babbling in an alley somewhere. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. Oh, he’d been doing so well …

In a moment, he forced himself to his feet and moved to the bathroom to scrub the makeup off. He looked up at the man in the mirror, who had really only managed to smear the excessive eyeliner a bit more than it already was, and jabbed a finger into his reflection. “You’re going to stop acting like fawning teenage girl,” he declared, “because you’re Ford… no, you know who you are? You’re Ix-fucking- Praxibetel, womanizing madman of the galaxy, lord of all things boozy and fun, leading expert on the best places to get absolutely knocked off of your ass in every corner of a constantly expanding universe. You’re not going to cry because someone descended from creatures that throw their own shit around for fun thinks you’re a bit odd. Well, you did cry a little, but that’s over with now, because you’re a grown man, who…”

He looked at himself in the mirror for a bit longer. 

He couldn’t  _ begin  _ to take the man looking back at him seriously. 

Ford sighed and slumped into the sink. At this point, all of him ached. The director had made them stay late to run the “Coat of Many Colors” dance, on top of their full run of the rest of the show, on  _ top  _ of his usual eight-hour shift. He was beyond tired. 

He blamed that and dragged himself into bed. As he closed his eyes, he heard another negative readout chime from the living room.

He buried his face into his pillow and sighed. “Tomorrow,” he muttered to himself. “Just get to tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another shorty to get us to showday. dw. shit starts happening. soon.


	9. Thursday, 12/14/79, 5:30pm

“Alright, Ford, honey, you gotta hold still.”

“I really do think I can do this on my own.”

“You can’t,” the woman doing his makeup promptly replied. “Close your eyes.”

Ford sighed and did as he was told. The woman, Ash, drew the too-sharp-for-comfort pencil over his eyelid until it nearly reached his temple. Ford cracked the eye that wasn’t being worked on open to look at himself in the mirror. “You don’t think it’s a little much?”

Ash shrugged. “S’what the director wanted, honey. I can’t say shit.”

Ford arched the ridiculously thin eyebrow she’d drawn on him. It framed gold eyeshadow that, in his humble opinion, covered more area than any eye makeup had the right to. “I know she wants consistency with the other brothers --”

“Not this again --”

“I just think it pops a _little_ more on me, yeah? Maybe a little _too_ much, compared to pasty and the paperstack over there?”

“ _Ford,_ ” Ash sighed, grabbing him by the shoulders. “If you think I am reviving this argument on _opening night,_ you are dead wrong.”

Ford sighed, twisting to get a look at himself in the mirror. “Who opens on a Thursday?”

“Close your eyes, Ford.”

He obliged, sitting back and letting her get to work on the other half of his face. He didn’t mind looking like a drag queen on her day off, but he did mind that the friends he’d invited along were going to see it.

Ash let him go after a few more adjustments. He hurried to pull on the rest of his costume, mind running over the guest list. Eliza, who’d insisted. He’d asked some other pals along, but none of them had given him a solid yes or no.

Okay… well, short guest list, then. That was fine. They’d sold out, so it’s not like there’d be a lack of eyes on him.

He tightened his headband and cracked his back. He’d already stretched and done all of that annoying preparation, all he had to do was wait for the places call. He had to admit, he was a _little_ giddy. Performance was something he liked, anyways. If anything was going to pull him out of his fog, it was this. He was pulled from his thoughts as a hand landed lightly on his back.

“Hey,” Oliver chirped, letting his fingers stray on his shoulder as he stepped around to face him. “I like the eyeliner.”

Ford wrinkled his nose. “You’re alone in that.”

Oliver chuckled at that. “You busy tonight?”

“Just the cast dinner.”

Ford wasn’t playing dumb, of course. He knew exactly what Oliver meant by that. He just found it a little tiring to dance around and say wry, clever things sometimes. He liked to do that on his own time, not when prompted.

That said, he considered the smaller man in front of him for a moment. He wasn’t a bad lay. And, though he liked to deny it, something was still nagging in the absolute back of his mind. “Something” was Arthur. Wanting to fuck Arthur, that is. And kiss him. Talking to him again, even, would be nice. Maybe cuddling on the couch. Maybe he could explain cricket again. Ford knew he’d played as a boy, but he hadn’t listened even a little when he was explaining it. Having Arthur around would be nice, really. Nobody had left him painkillers and a glass of water last time he went out drinking. It made him miss the man, even though he had decided firmly that he was over him, and that whatever he had done was in the past, and that --

“Ford?”

Ford snapped out of his thoughts. “Yeah?”

“I said,” Oliver drawled, “do you want to come over for dessert?”

Ford stared at the smaller man for a long moment. If anything would be the final nail in the “getting-over-Arthur” coffin, he decided, this would.

He just really didn’t like all this dancing around. So he decided to lead by example.

“You want to fuck, right?”

Ford Prefect was promptly slapped across the face.

 

His face was still stinging a bit by the time they were in places. He rubbed his slightly stinging cheek, the red spot quickly covered by an emergency spot of concealer courtesy of Ash. For a little guy, he packed quite a punch.

The curtain lifted and the opening notes played. He leaned back towards one of his brothers and dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Can you see the handprint?”

“Shh, Ford.”

“I feel like you can. Just look.”

“It’s dark, Ford,” one of the brothers provided.

“Seriously, shut the fuck up,” another added.

“Eddie, look,” he whispered, leaning towards the man playing Benjamin.

Eddie gave him a gentler-than-deserved bop on the back of the head.

“We have two songs until we go out, alright?” he grumbled, retying his headband. “Trying to pass some time, is all.”

 _“Some of us are micced, Ford,”_  another voice hissed.

Ford sighed. “Well, in that case, I don’t see why the rest of us can’t talk.”

Nobody responded. Somewhere, in the back of Ford’s otherwise lacking human social skills, he realized that he would not get anywhere no matter his next move.

He turned back to where Joseph was wrapping up “any dream will do.” Lightly reaching up, he brushed his fingers over the spot on his face. He’d taken far more abuse then a little slap, but this one stung… different. He’d _really_ upset Oliver. Turns out the man was trying to keep the news quiet. Even now, he could practically feel his eyes drilling into him from across stage.

He glanced up to where he knew Oliver was standing. What really stung was that of _course_ he’d known that blurting out the other man’s business would upset him. Of _course_ he could have absolutely been drilled into the mattress later tonight with two more sentences worth of work. He knew that. He knew how Oliver worked. He’d been leading him on for months now, but why?

Because of Arthur Dent. Because he was apparently “saving himself” for him, now? Because, oh, any day now, Arthur was going to waltz back in, crying at his feet, “Oh, Ford, take me back, even though I hate your guts so much I left without a word even though I was the only person that you’d formed any serious emotional bond with because you’re scared of people knowing who you are, or more importantly, that you’re the shittiest version of the Little Prince ever and they’ll send you to be dissected by weirdos in suits! Anyways, come fuck this! I love you!” Ford rolled his eyes, feeling his annoyance build in his stomach. God, he was getting ridiculous.

“Ford.”

 _Earth was making him ridiculous_ , he thought to himself with a huff.

“ _Ford.”_

 _Arthur had made him ridiculous,_ he decided.

“Ford!”

He turned to Eddie in time to see the other man grab his sleeve and drag him out on stage.

“Benjamin!”

Ford choked on his own spit and made a sound that sounded an awful lot like “Juh-duh.” Which, given the circumstances, was probably a lot closer than it should have been. Eddie’s hand was firmly planted on his shoulder from where he’d dragged him in. He squeezed. Very, very hard. Ford forced a big smile. He took a deep breath through his teeth.

 _No more thinking,_ he told himself. _You know the show. Do the show. Just do something right, for once in the fucking decade and a half you’ve been on this planet, so your castmates don’t draw and quarter you._

And, with a considerable effort, he slammed that box shut and locked it. It was getting way too full anymore. He’d have to do something about it. Like get a bigger box.

 

The show went well. Of course the show went well. They’d rehearsed every day for months, if it went poorly then they had fucked up horribly somewhere.

But, and Ford was incredibly annoyed with this, it wasn’t any fun,

No more of the backstage quipping with the brothers, they were annoyed with him for nearly fucking up the entrance. No talking to Oliver at all. He couldn’t even get a raport going with Ash during intermission, who was hurriedly painting the pharaoh makeup onto Oliver. So he drank some water and sat down on a box backstage. Then the stage crew gripped at him because it was actually the base of the pyramid and it needed to be moved into position. Ford asked if he could just come along for the ride, and the assistant stage manager had sighed very heavily.

He crammed his frustration into the box and slammed the lid again. Whatever. Whatever. Get through the show. Just get through the show. Just like humans to ruin something fun through bickering and rushing about.

Act two opened and he watched Oliver prance around, the audience offering a few wolf whistles from people who were working under the illusion that they were very funny. He very badly wanted to enlighten them to the fact that, no, they were not. The part of his brain that wasn’t busy being very angry at everyone else quietly whispered that he had made that same joke during a rehearsal, but the angry part shushed it fervently and let Ford keep stewing.

Those Canaan days went fine. The brothers go to Egypt went fine. Benjamin Calypso, a song he simply adored for how delightfully stupid it was and how much of it he got to sing, went just fine. People laughed in the right places, etcetera. He did the big finale.

Where he squatted right on the lip of the stage.

Where the lights caught the front row.

Where Arthur Dent was sitting, staring at him with unbridled delight.

Ford blinked, against all odds. His stage face dropped as he stared at Arthur. The final chords of the show played, and he felt on of the brothers grab him and pull him back to their line for bows. But he just kept staring at Arthur, jaw slack. Why was he here? Why’d he shown up? The front row? He didn’t recognize the men on either side of him, had he come alone? Had he come just to see him perform? Oh God, he had, hadn’t he? Why did he? Doesn’t he hate me? Why was he here? Why was he here? Why was he here?

But he stared at Arthur Dent as his brothers dragged him along, arms linked for the bow as they always did, and felt the realization creep over his chest.

Oh God, he had fucked up so bad.

Why hadn’t he planned an exit? Why had he just decided to trust dumb luck? Why had he spent fifteen years slobbing around like a ship would get him tomorrow, when he hadn’t picked up a signal in years?

Why hadn’t he told anyone? Why had he pushed them all off? Why was he so scared?

Why was he so scared?

Why was he so scared?

...Why wasn’t Arthur?

Arthur Dent, who was clapping like a seal, His face drawn up in a smile Ford missed terribly, wasn’t scared of him.

He’d chalked it up to people being stupid. He’d chalked it up to a willing suspension of disbelief. He’d never considered that Arthur wasn’t scared, or more, that he _was_ scared, but was willing to bear it, because…

He stared at Arthur. Arthur stared back. Concern crossed the other man’s brow.

… Because he liked him enough to bear it.

Ford Prefect had spent his whole time on earth, more, his whole time going around the universe, ruffling feathers so someone would pay him any mind. So someone would tell him to fuck off, or laugh at him, would notice he existed in an infinitely interesting universe… but Arthur?

Arthur looked at him and smiled. Not because he was doing anything of note. But because he was Ford Prefect.

That was all he wanted.

The universe was infinitely massive. He was infinitely small.

But Arthur Dent cared about him, maybe even loved him, even in mundanity.

Life was a very heavy thing. Maybe it was okay to want someone to help carry it.

 

But the lights shut off, and he had to run offstage when Eddie grabbed him and tugged on his arm. He was barely aware of what he was doing, because he felt like he’d figured something very big out.

Arthur Dent cared about him. Somebody could. Maybe other people could, too, with time.

Ford could be happy on earth.

All he had to do was stop being so scared of it.

***

He smudged away his makeup in the mirror as quickly as he could. Occasionally, he’d turn and shout to the others as they shouted at him, talking about how it was a job well done and a great opening night. But mostly, he was focused on getting out to the lobby as soon as he could. He would make up with his cast tomorrow. 

He was going to start with Arthur.

Yes, apologies were not his specialty. But he was going to screw up his courage, stuff down his pride, and tell his best friend everything.

Or at least the alien stuff. He’d probably just apologize a lot for the karaoke thing. Maybe ask what he’d done. Take baby steps from there. 

He smudged the eyeliner and cursed as it wouldn’t wipe off. With the way his eyes were watering, it felt like he was using rubbing alcohol to clean off, but apparently it still wasn’t enough. Ford pursed his lips at his reflection. Oh, Arthur had seen him worse.

He made his way to the door, clapping his brothers on the back, giving Oliver a wave from a respectful distance, shouting general excuses for why he may or may not meet them at Spoons. He was the first out, weaving between costume racks and boxes of props. He thanked the director as he passed her and pounded up the stairs. It was invigorating, really -- the fact that, for the first time ever, he was excited to be open and honest with someone else. He expected Zaphod would roll over and die if he’d heard that, but hey, Zaphod was an asshole sometimes, and --

Ford stopped in the hallway. People were filtering out of the large double doors, but a small group of people waiting for the cast had already gathered. 

This included Arthur Dent, who was fussing with a loose button on his jacket. 

Ford charged. He practically tackled Arthur to the ground, cackling with delight. “You came!”

Arthur, clearly startled, quickly wrapped him in a hug as well. “I, ah, I’m sorry I --”

“Shut up, okay, shut up,” Ford chirped, setting him down and grabbing his face. “Shut up. I’ve figured it all out. Arthur Dent, I am going to tell you  _ everything --” _

“I thought your song was fantas -- oh, we’re talking about something else, sorry --”

“Arthur, I am an alien, stranded on earth, and I will do everything in my power to prove it, because I’m done scaring you and pushing you off! I’m done pushing everyone off! I’m a man of Earth! I’m starting over! I’m done living in secret! I’m…”

Arthur was staring at him, concern furrowing his face. “So… you didn’t, ah, you didn’t go to that doctor, then …”

Ford stared at him blankly. 

“I really am getting worried, Ford.”

“What.”

“It’s just, this has to be the third time you’ve tried to convince me of this, and --”

“The third?”

“-- All the jokes, really, in between, I thought that maybe it was a metaphor you liked to use, but last time you pulled out all of those little gadgets, and then you passed out --”

“What are you talking about, wait, wait…”

“Honestly, when you ran up to me, I was hoping you were going to say something about how I…” Arthur glanced back at the very concerned crowd and pulled Ford a few steps away as he dropped his voice, “Kissed you, maybe confirm that you liked that, that it was okay with you, or something --”

“You kissed me?”

“Yes, yeah, and I just feel awful about it, because you clearly weren’t in your right mind, but what really threw me was when you just stood up right as…” Arthur twirled his hand, “Things were, moreso, you know,  _ going,  _ and you launched into the Betelgeuse thing again, and I let you go, because I thought that maybe it was a defence mechanism, and you just didn’t want to, and if you don’t, that’s fine, honestly, shouldn’t have assumed, lots of lovely, ah, you know, straight men in theater --”

“What are you talking about.”

“And so I got up the next morning, and I saw you asleep, and I just, Ford, I feel awful about this. I just couldn’t stand to face you. Didn’t know what you’d say. Maybe I’d even scared you off, you know, I worry that the alien bit is a nervous tic, and so I packed up and ran, and you never called me, so I just assumed you were done with me, but I’d already bought the ticket, so…”

Ford stared at Arthur for a very long time. 

“Are you telling me,” he began, forcing an even tone, “that I’ve spent the last month and a half tearing myself apart, worried that the only man I trust worth a damn hates me, not knowing what I did to you, because you were  _ too awkward to leave a voicemail?” _

Arthur stared at him for a moment, then glanced away. “Guess you could say… yeah, I guess that is … I mean,” he looked back up at Ford, “I made the first move, I thought this was your way of letting me down easy, I don’t --”

“ _ Arthur,” _ he hissed, “I don’t  _ remember  _ that because I was  _ extremely drunk.” _

“...Oh,” he said, quietly, after a moment.

“Who’s idea of letting someone down easy is trying to convince them they’re an alien?”

“Someone like you,” Arthur muttered, a little defensive. “Sorry, then.”

“ _ Sorry?” _

“I’m very, very sorry. I should have known not to, you know, initiate things, and I understand if you --”

Ford grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Drive me to my apartment.”

“Don’t you usually have a cast dinner or --”

“Arthur,” he snapped, pulling the other man so they were practically nose-to-nose. “Drive me to my apartment. I’m going to convince you that I’m an alien.”

“Ford, people are looking --”

“Do it.”

“You understand it’s not a very convincing offer, right?”

“ _ Arthur.” _

“Right,” he returned in a very tiny voice. “I’ll, ah, I’ll hear you out. Again.”

Ford, still firmly clinging to the other’s sleeve, dragged him towards the entrance. He gave the small, deeply upset crowd a little wave as he went. 

The ride home was quiet. Arthur occasionally chipped in with compliments to the show, which Ford universally answered with “Thanks, now drive.”

Ford Prefect had done many stupid things in his life. He’d been in many extremely stupid situations that he’d answered with equally stupid solutions. This one? This one took the cake. Spend a month and a half moping around and contemplating existence just to learn that one, he had already  _ known  _ that he needed to “come out” as it were, to the point where his stupid blackout drunk self had done it not once but  _ thrice,  _ and two,  _ Arthur  _ was the one who initiated things, when this whole time he’d been holding himself at the pyre for -- 

“Ford?”

“What?” he snapped.

“...We’re here.”

Ford turned and looked at his building. “Oh. Thanks. Sorry.” he unbuckled and pushed open the door. “Let’s go, then.”

“So… you’re really going to do this?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sober?”

Ford thought for a moment. “...Yes.” 

Arthur looked at him for a beat, then sighed, and turned off his car. “Let’s go, then.”


	10. Thursday, 12/14/79, 9:30pm

“Put the fish in your ear.”

“Ford, put the bowl down!”

“Put it in your -- trust me, okay, just put the fish in your ear, it’s all going to make sense --”

Arthur swatted his hands away and Ford had to scramble to keep the babelfish from hitting the ground.

“Hey!”

“Ford, have you absolutely lost it?”

“I’m going to if you don’t put this fish in your ear!”

“Then that’s a risk I’m willing to take!” Arthur snapped. Well, snapped so much as Arthur could snap. 

Ford sighed and dropped his spare fish back into its bowl. It immediately retreated to the spot farthest from either of them. “See, and now you’ve scared the poor thing.”

“Scared him? You’re scaring  _ me!” _

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He wasn’t getting anywhere, and he was running out of things to show him. More importantly, he was running very low on patience.

The sensors had been brushed off as meteorological equipment. The books in languages you needed five extra eyes to read (or a babelfish, hence the conversation above) had been nervously regarded as some catalogue of Ford’s insane ramblings. The guide had been accused of the same, which really upset him, because even though Arthur couldn’t tell him  _ how  _ he’d managed to make a calculator do that, he was still  _ insistent  _ that he wasn’t telling the truth. 

“You just tapped into it, is all,” he’d said, turning it over in his hands with a degree of uncertainty. 

“You think I can reprogram a calculator?” he’d snapped.

“Well, I don’t know, Ford! You’re full of surprises!”

He ran his fingers through his hair again. He was running out of options. There were no more machines or foreign souvenirs to show him, especially with how adamant he was about being the only intelligent life in the universe. Maybe, what, his ID? No, no, he’d already claimed it was something he’d printed up himself… 

But it gave him an idea. 

Ford snatched up a receipt and a pen and transcribed his name in his native script, waving off any efforts to discern what he was doing by Arthur in the ten minutes he took. After much hemming and hawing, he turned to Arthur. “You're absolutely sure you won’t put the babel fish in?”  
“Ford, I’m not putting a fish in my ear.”  
“Alright, alright.” He chewed the end of his pencil. “I'm going to say some sounds, you tell me if you hear them.”  
“That... alright, Ford,” Arthur sighed, settling down on the couch.   
“S,” he said.   
“I heard that,” Arthur replied.   
“And how did it sound?”  
“Like an S, Ford.”  
Ford stared at him for a moment. “You’re not taking this very seriously.”  
“I wonder why.”  
“Alright —“ Ford squinted at the next collection of figures. Triple umlaut, five connectors, thirty-three accent marks —  
“V,” he said after a moment of careful deliberation.   
“V,” Arthur repeated, picking at the arm of the couch.   
Ford’s brow furrowed. “Alright, and, ah, it ends in ‘en,’ so...”  
“...Sven.”  
Ford and Arthur stared at each other for a long time.   
“... You’re Norwegian?”  
“No, I am not Norwegian!” Ford snapped. 

“Is Betelgeuse a little town there, because this is a long way to go for some kind of strange… I don’t know, pun? Is it a pun?”

“How did you do that?”  
“Do what?”  
“Say my name!”  
“It’s... I don’t know, Ford, it’s not the most common name, but I’ve met some Svens in my life. Roomed with one in university. So is Ford a nickname, or...?”

Ford shoved the paper into his hands. “You’re telling me this says Svahn?”

“...Says what?”  
“...Svhain.”

“Are you alright?”

“S...Svhee -- that thing you said?

“Sven?” Arthur looked down at the paper. “... Well, yes I am.”

Ford snatched the paper back and threw it aside. Fucking universe and its contrivances. Just like it to pull something like that.  
“Ford,” Arthur snapped, standing from the couch, “how the fuck does this prove you’re an alien?”  
Ford looked away for a moment and worried his lip. “...Was supposed to, anyways.”  
“Well it... it didn’t,” Arthur returned with all the authority he could muster. “Ford, you are starting to worry me, you know that? If you aren’t interested, then… that’s fine! It’s completely fine! You can just say no, I’ll get over it, or I’ll leave you alone, but don’t keep trying to convince me that you’re an alien! It’s a weird one, but I get it, we all have those nervous tics, just...“ he sighed. “Just be honest, just for a moment.”  
Ford, defeated, sighed and flopped down into his chair. Great, great. So now Arthur had reached out to him, decided, out of the goodness of his heart, to fix Ford’s fuck-up, and he’d thoroughly convinced him he was absolutely fucking mental. He felt something dig into his back and reached around to fish it out. It was his editors license, which he had hastily thrown to the side after Arthur had dismissed it. He sneered at his smiling face and tossed it on the table. “Start over, Arthur, I forgot to listen.”  
Arthur was dead silent.   
“I know I said I’d stop doing that, sorry.”  
Arthur was dead silent.   
Ford glanced at the other man, who stood slack-jawed, staring at the table. “You alright?”  
Arthur was dead silent.   
Ford stared at him for another moment before following his eyes to the table. His ID had landed next to his copy of the guide, and, as it always did, the card had changed over to accept his thumbprint.   
Ford looked up at Arthur. He’d never, in his life, been angrier.   
“THAT’S what gets you?” He practically shouted, snapping to his feet. “A fucking PASSWORD SCREEN?”  
“How did it —“  
“Arthur Dent, if I were in my right mind —“  
“It’s not connected to anything, there’s no way it can all fit in there, it’s thin as paper —“  
“I can’t believe this, I genuinely fucking cannot believe this, you are the most maddening man alive, do you know —“

Arthur gently picked the card up like it was fit to shatter to glass any moment. It picked up on his thumbprint and flashed red.

The card played his alarm, which was just him very loudly yelling ‘get your fuckin’ hands off my card!’ Arthur barely bit back a yelp as he dropped it. “What in God’s name was that sound!?”

“Me, Arthur. It was me talking. You hear it all the time. I think I’ve said that to you before.”

“What… what were you doing?”

“They let you set your own alarm, and Zaphod thought it would be funny if I just made it me saying ‘get your fuckin’ hands of my card.’ That’s really what’s going to convince you? Not the almanack of the universe, but my alarm?”

“That is  _ not _ the sound that came out of this card, Ford Prefect,” Arthur snapped. 

Ford rolled his eyes. “It would’ve been, if you’d put the fish in your ear. S’from when I first signed on as a writer. Must be in Betelgeusian. ”

Arthur stared at him for a long moment. “Ford, if you can make that sound again, I won’t call the police.”

Ford shook his head and sighed. He cleared his main throat and opened his second one. “Get your fuckin’ hands off my card,” he said in his mother tongue.

Arthur winced, then picked up the ID again. The alarm played. He stared at Ford, then at the little picture of him grinning in the corner. He sat back and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know how you did that. I have no idea how you did that. I can’t explain how you did that.”

“Just open your second throat.”

“My what?”

“Your second throat?” Ford repeated, annoyed. “For the accent, you need air from the second…” He blinked. “Oh my God, you only have the one, how did I --”

“We only have  _ one,”  _ Arthur echoed. “You could have just shown me --”

“I completely forgot, wow.” He rubbed his temples, annoyed with himself. “...But you believe me now, right?”

Arthur lowered his hands from his eyes. Ford leaned in close and opened his mouth. 

“She? Dah,” he managed. “Loog, yuh juh --” he opened and closed the throat a few times for good measure. “Negst to dah --”

Arthur turned away from him and gagged. “ _ Stop.” _

“But you believe me, right? You believe me now?” he grabbed him by the shoulders, excitement building in his chest. “You can’t fucking explain that one, right? You don’t think I’m crazy? You don’t…” He trailed off.

Arthur had turned away from him and buried his head in his hands. He shook his head slowly, taking a very deep breath.

Ford settled back, giving him a bit of space. He drew his hands away and sighed. “Sorry if it’s a bit much.”

“It’s just… It’s just that I don’t know what to say, Ford.” He ran his hands back through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.”

Ford let them sit in silence for a moment. He watched his scanner blink, the little red light measuring out the seconds. After a while, he pursed his lips and gathered his courage.

Alright, so this was all about telling the truth.

“Arthur, I’ve been here for fifteen years.” He drew his legs up onto the couch and crossed them. After a tentative moment, he put a hand on the other’s back. “I’ve kept all of this crap running the whole time, I don’t leave the house without the portable one, I check the sky every night like clockwork,” he said softly, eyes still locked on the scanner as it blinked red, as it had for years now. “Was nothing I wanted to do more then leave. You know how I am here? Going out at night, all that? Imagine that to the millionth. To the billionth, even, and you have every day of my life out there. Not to mention my friends, my family -- I’ve a semi-cousin, universally renowned for being an absolute fucking idiot, who I miss, against all odds. I don’t know what he’s up to. I can’t know. I can’t know, and at this point, I probably never will know if everyone I’ve ever known is dead or alive.” He rubbed over his eyes. “Christ’s sake, they probably think I’m dead at this point. Can you imagine that, Arthur? Completely uprooted from all you’ve ever known, thrown into a world completely different from your own, never knowing if you’ll speak to your own mother again?” He felt his chest tighten. God, he’d never said that out loud. God, it was a really horrible thing to hear. “So… I’m scared, then. I’ve nearly died in horrible ways a thousand times, but now, sitting here, knowing that I’m probably not going anywhere… I’m scared.” He palmed at his eyes, which weren’t crying yet, but were making a very firm threat of doing so. “And I’ve been scared. And I pretend that I’m not scared, because I’m kind of known for my very positive take on nihilism, but I can’t anymore, Arthur, because I realized that while you were gone I didn’t have anyone to push the fear off onto. I didn’t have anyone pointing out or, hell, sometimes  _ creating  _ the little things that made this place alright. Because, and I’ll be damned if I know what it is, but the only part of Earth I’ve never been afraid of is you.”

There was a very long pause, filled by the soft sound of Ford palming away the water welling in his eyes. He hadn’t cried yet. He didn’t plan to, either. 

Arthur wrapped him in a very big hug. The plan was immediately aborted. 

He buried his face in the stupid shoulder of Arthur’s stupid oxford and felt the rough fibers of his stupid sweater-vest dig into his skin as he clung to him for dear life. Arthur was silent, just holding him, and it was all he wanted. 

Tennents of the galaxy scream their whole lives away for the chance to come off as a whisper in the great length of everything. But here, in this quiet little corner of of an infinitely expanding universe, there was room for silence.

Primal planets screech with rage and chaos. Advanced planets… well, pretty much the same, really, just more folks pretend they have an idea of what they’re doing. But Earth, like Arthur, fell dead-center.

He buried his face deeper into Arthur’s shoulder.

He could settle for the inbetween. More than that, maybe he could find that in some odd way, he even prefered it.

So he pulled back, and kissed Arthur, and felt at home for the first time in a very, very long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, in my mind beautelgeusian just sounds like someone holding a fork in a garbage disposal. Like he just opens his mouth and it's "CHCHKJSHJHJHCHCUHDJCHJDHCDJHCD." I think this because the fact that he would hear everything like this is very funny to me and for no other reason.   
> Anyways, the babelfish doesnt teach you the language of the people youre speaking to, which is kinda fucked up but i double checked it and it just... doesn't. I'd assume it helps you pick them up easier but still damn hows your fuckin learning curve lmao


	11. Thursday, 12/21/79

Ford saw several benefits to Arthur not sleeping on his couch anymore. The one he took advantage of the most was having friends over at night without having to watch Arthur wander aimlessly between knick-knacks and other garbage strewn around the room, pretending to be interested in them while silently begging to have the couch back so he could just go to bed. They were taking advantage of that now, having moved him back in with the help of, again, his sister and her husband. Arthur had flipped on a cricket match, leaving Ford and his sister to chat while occasionally pretending to be interested in the plays he was explaining. 

“I did kind of know, you know.”

“Know what?” Ford asked, popping a pretzel in his mouth.

“Knew Arthur was … oh, what’s the word you’re fine with --”

“Alice!” Arthur snapped, attention finally pulled away from the match. 

“He told you about his posters yet? S’when I knew, was all the posters,” she continued, unperturbed.

“No, he absolutely hasn’t,” Ford practically chirped with glee. “Tell me everything.”

“Should have known this was a mistake,” Arthur sighed. “Should have moved it all myself. Should have --”

“Arthur had a  _ wall _ of posters of the Osmonds. You know them?”

Ford nodded. “Course I know them. They’re from, what, a few years ago?”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Alice practically sang. “S’when they hit it big over here. They were on some little American show before that. Still no idea how he found it.”

“I’m almost certain it was you,” he muttered, turning up the volume on the match. “You like to leave out that you were just as bad about them. Pretend that you didn’t have a wall to match.”

She waved him off. “Would have been fine, maybe, if it weren’t for the fact that the wall kept growing until he left for Uni.”

“That true, Arthur?” Ford beamed, utterly delighted. Arthur pursed his lips and looked annoyed. Ford turned back to Alice. “So it is true.”

“Of course it is. You really want to mess with him, play a song from that… oh, what’s it called, it’s a musical… some story from the bible, but they do it all flashy and awful. You know?”

Ford could barely contain his delight. “Actually, I think I do. Joseph, right? Story of Joseph?”

“God, yeah, that. What’s the name of the main actor? I can tell you the last name is Osmond, that’s what got him hooked, but --”

“It’s Donny Osmond,” Arthur huffed. “Are we done? Can we be done with this conversation?”

Ford turned back to Alice. “I just wrapped up a production of Joseph. He pretended he had no idea what it was this entire time.”

“Arthur, you didn’t!” Alice snorted, grabbing a handful of pretzels. “He absolutely does. We got him settled in and the first thing he dug out was a cassette of it.”

Ford beamed. “I should have known you picked up on those lyrics a bit too quickly.”

Arthur sighed. “And I should have known you two would get along too well.”

 

Eventually, Alice yawned and declared that she was tired, and she and her husband wished them the best and left. Ford shut the door behind them. “So, never heard of Joseph, yeah?”

“Stop it.”

“Is that what got you, then?” he chirped, flopping down on the couch. He squirmed and popped his head onto Arthur’s lap. “You heard me rehearsing and just couldn’t control yourself?”

“Ford, it’s embarrassing!”

“No, well, yes.” He reached up and gave him a pat on the cheek. “It’s also very endearing that you tried to butch up for me.”

“Well, I didn’t want to scare you off --”

“God, you’re right, it was the only clue,” he snickered as he pushed himself further back, slowly clambering onto the other’s lap. “Living alone with a cat named after queen Victoria didn’t tip me off a bit.”

Arthur still wouldn’t look at him, but the corners of his mouth were twitching with a repressed smile. “Because you’re the absolute model of a straight man.”

He pulled himself up and leaned back on the arm of the couch, now firmly in Arthur’s lap. “Don’t remember  _ ever  _ claiming that was true.”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, you want me to show you a pain in the ass?”

“No,” Arthur said, and hugged him around the waist. “Not right now.”

Ford settled back onto his shoulder and closed his eyes, letting the lul of two men he didn’t know yammering about a sport he didn’t understand carry him off. 

Maybe someday, a ship would pick him up and he could zip around for a week or two. Catch up with some old friends, reveal that he wasn’t dead, buy a lifetime supply of Janx. Have Zaphod drop him back off in whatever flashy new spaceship he’d nabbed this week, arrange another holiday a few months out during one of Betelgeuse's more rowdy festivals, maybe even arrange a spot for Arthur. It only felt right that he should meet his family, seeing as he’d just made plans to visit with his during Christmas. But all of that was the future.

For now, he sighed, content, and was glad to be on Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do the timelines of the Osmond's success and this story line up? no. not in real life. but in this universe it does because i think thats very funny.  
> Thanks for reading! Sorry you did! I'm going to enter a coma now!


End file.
